Veil
by lacemonster
Summary: [Based off of Batman #33 (2016/Rebirth).] On their way to Khadym to find Bruce, Dick and Damian camp out in the desert. When night falls, Damian makes the mistake of assuming Dick is asleep. [DickDami; smut]


**Warnings** : underage; explicit sexual content; age difference; dubious-consent; daddy kink

 **Pairings** : Dick/Damian

 **Credits** : This is a non-profit, fanmade work. All characters are owned by DC. This fanfiction was written and created by me.

 **A/N** : This is based off Batman #33, where Damian breaks down and cries when he realizes that Bruce is going to face off against Talia. It was such a sweet, vulnerable moment for Damian and I loved that Dick was there to comfort him. I loved the moment so much that I really wanted to write more of Dick comforting Damian. Eventually, I wrote this—but it was really short and I couldn't tell how I felt about it, so I didn't post it.

But then I recently was reminded of its existence and decided to revisit it last night. Since I edited/added things very late at night, I have no idea if this story is polished or not—but fuck it, I'm just going to post it.

Since this story is incredibly self-indulgent, I can't imagine going back to this story to fix it, so I would prefer to _not_ receive any constructive criticism. Unless there's a noticeable typo, please keep your critique to yourself, thank you.

* * *

Eyes squeezed shut, face pressed hard against Dick's chest, Damian's world became this warm, enveloping blackness. He saw nothing, only felt the blanketing embrace of Dick's body wrapped around him.

Dick always knew exactly what to say, what to do.

Damian hated him for it.

Didn't he realize that he was only making things worse?

It was difficult to breathe. Dick's arms seemed to constrict him, laced to wrest every breath, every sob. But Damian couldn't give in. He breathed hard against Dick's chest, feeling each exhale warm the seemingly nonexistent space between them, each sigh seeming to interlock with the fibers of Dick's shirt.

Damian fought it so hard that he could feel his lungs twisting, his eyes burning. The occasional pathetic sound crept up his throat, choking him, filling the tent louder than Dick's lulling, as if his body was screaming, _you can't stop this_. _This is going to happen. You're not as strong as you once were_.

"It's okay. I've got you," Dick whispered.

As if his words were a spell, Damian choked out his first sob, a shudder running through his body, his shoulders heaving. He felt the next one, swelling and swelling and swelling inside his chest, threatening to burst, to break—

 _Stop_.

 _You're making it worse_.

It was Dick's fault.

Not just because he had been keeping a hawk's eye trained on Damian ever since his first episode in the parlor. Not just because of the way he gently handled Damian like he was something fragile that would break at any given moment, like he was _waiting_ and _wanting_ him to fall apart. Not even because he had kept prodding Damian over the past hour, trying to figure out _what's wrong_ when Damian made the mistake of assuming he was asleep next to him.

No.

It was Dick's fault because he had made Damian this way.

* * *

Damian had been tossed from Mother to Father to Dick, and this only ever happened so frequently under one of their guidances. Damian had his moments of weakness under Mother's tutelage, yes, but he was smaller then, he was pushed harder. With Father, their time together had been too brief for tears. And then Dick entered the picture. Damian was never like _this_ until he encountered Dick's insisting gentleness. The strength of Dick's emotions had infected Damian somehow. Dick had allowed him to— _no_ , he _nurtured_ this weakness inside of Damian. He made him this way.

Damian could feel his grief, thick in his throat. And with that was anger. Anger that prickled hot on his cheeks. Anger at Dick, for pushing and pushing and pushing, instead of leaving well enough alone. Anger at himself, for not being able to control the emotions that welled up inside him. He tried to compress it inside of himself. Tried to box it all up—but it kept spilling, spilling. His body shook. His chest twisted.

How many nights had Damian spent alone with cold sand below him and the vast, endless night above him, after performing far more heinous acts that never made him shed a tear?

Now look at him.

Crying over nothing.

Pathetic.

"I'm right here," came Dick's gentle whisper, and Damian wondered if that was the problem.

A string of sounds. Inhale. His voice breaking. A stutter of breath. Like an orchestra that couldn't quite pick up the right timing and had to restart again and again.

Damian tried to wall it off. Tried to seal it up. But even so, he could feel the tears forming at the corners of his eyes.

He focused on Dick's shirt, which now seemed burning hot. Damian's head was spinning, each inhale bringing in Dick's scent.

He wasn't pushing Dick off of him anymore. He could feel himself tilting, collapsing, against him. His small hands dug into Dick's back, small arms barely able to hug around the man's body, the fabric bunching in his hands, as if struggling to hold onto purchase.

Dick only seemed to encourage this. He rubbed circles over Damian's shoulders, his spine, the small of his back. The motion soothing.

"That's right. I have you, baby."

Gasps that shook and stuttered through his frame. Tears touching against cotton. His face, burning hot, everything hot when the night was supposed to be at its coldest—

Dick's lips pressed against the top of his head, the gentle noise drowning into the mix of Damian's restrained and failed-to-restrain sounds. Damian held Dick tighter, crumbling faster and faster now. Two heavy consecutive sobs. His throat stung, felt ready to burst. Worse, Damian felt something pulling at him, this dull desire that allowed him to lean into Dick's body, his hands tightening.

He wanted it.

He wanted Dick's embrace, his kisses, his soothing voice.

He wanted to break down into nothing more than a mess, to completely fall apart and crumble.

He wanted to be weak.

Wanted Dick to hold him like he used to, back in the nights where he taught him to be this way.

The first time Damian saw Dick cry, it was the first time he had seen any man cry.

Infants and children cry, of course. But there was a point and time, around the reach of independence, where crying no longer served its purpose. It was meant to phase out with maturity.

Damian had heard of it in stories, of course. Long tragic tales of heroes and their lost loves or fallen countries. Famous last words spoken with grief in their voices and stars in their eyes. Fantasy. And if not a fantasy, then spurred by some higher, grandeur reason—a grief so great that only a king or warrior of such godly power could be swayed.

And of course, he had witnessed grown men screaming in terror and pain until tears rolled down their cheeks. Had seen men so sick and fallen that their eyes leaked. He knew it was possible, of course. But those were the reactions of the body.

Boys grieve. Men don't.

Seeing Dick cry had turned his world upside down.

At first, Damian didn't register what he was seeing. They had returned from patrol. Dick was in a chair, was supposed to be pulling off his boots when he suddenly stopped short. The laces still hung in his grasp. Damian had looked over from taking off his cape when he heard Dick's sharp breath.

He had watched Dick sit there, his head bowed forward, cowl pulled to his shoulders to reveal his darkly shadowed face. And yet, Damian saw it. Saw it right there, on his cheek, then his jaw, before it fell to the floor.

It left him stunned.

"Batman doesn't cry," he said.

There was no emotion to his tone. He stared at Dick cautiously, not knowing what to make of him. Dick looked up at once, dark eyelashes wet. Somehow, the glassiness of his eyes made the blues irises stronger, more vibrant. Damian couldn't stop staring.

Dick's expression tightened for a flicker of a moment, his mouth a thin line—slowly, he nodded.

"Yes, he does. He did." A black glove swiped across his face. He went back to undoing the boot. "You just never had the chance to see it."

* * *

Before they were in a desert tent, they were in the parlor. And they weren't alone.

"Man, this is messed up."

"It's your fault. You pulled that 'you're Robin' shit."

"You mean it's _Bruce's_ fault."

"Well, yeah. But if he kills us, I'm blaming you."

"How was I supposed to know he was going to cry? I never even realized he _could_ cry..."

"Look, our protective gear is in the cave. It's not too late—"

"Shut up, Todd, or I'll _actually_ kill you! I'll kill both of you!" Damian said, rising from the bench. Dick's arm quickly snatched forward, yanking Damian back. Damian was forced to comply, practically falling back onto the seat. He didn't fight back—mostly because he could barely focus as it was. Duke and Jason were nothing but blurry splotches in his vision and his anger wasn't helping him regain his self-control.

"Can you guys give us a minute?" Dick said, the slightest edge to his voice.

"You _want_ to be left alone with him?"

Todd, always on the defensive. Damian gritted his teeth, wanting to yank the nearest object off the shelf behind him and toss it at his dumb face.

"Sorry. We can go—no big deal, right?" Duke said pointedly.

"Yeah. No big deal," Jason said, a bit quieter.

The sympathy only made Damian that much angrier. He let out a shaky breath, hearing their footsteps disappear.

Dick's hands scrubbed over his shoulders. Damian shrugged him off. Even so, Dick reached for him, hand cupping Damian's face. Damian stared downwards, where their knees touched, the materials of the fabrics blurring out of focus. His heart pulsed, clenching tightly, but he steeled his jaw.

"Don't focus on them," Dick said gently. "Just focus on me. It's just you and me."

Damian squeezed his eyes and said nothing.

"Damian," Dick said, almost sighing.

"Stop," he bit back.

"Why do you think this is your fault?"

"You're making it worse."

"I'm not—I'm not trying to. I'm trying to help."

Damian was determined to not give in. He remained stubbornly silent, save for the sniffs and choked breaths. He reached up to rub his wet nose with the back of his hand. Disgusting. Pathetic.

"It's not your fault," Dick tried again.

"It _is_."

"How?"

"She'll kill him."

"She's not going to kill him."

"She'll try. She won't stop trying until she does."

"That is not your fault—"

"It is!" Damian said, turning on Dick. Damian's anger gave him just enough push to face Dick eye to eye without falling apart. "She never would have hated him this much if it wasn't for me!"

Dick didn't say anything, just looked at Damian closely. The brief wave of courage quickly subsided—Damian started to crumble again, hot tears rising to the surface, face burning up. Dick was there instantly, thumbs wiping at the corners of his eyes. Damian kept his gaze averted, still trembling.

"That's not true. You know that's not true," Dick said, voice softer. Damian listened, wanting to believe him just as much as he wanted to hold onto his guilt. "He doesn't think that way. He loves you."

"Then why do I have to hear it from you?"

Dick went quiet for a moment. The thumb that stroked Damian's face did not still, the only indication that Dick was present and listening. Damian let him think.

"It hurts to see the people you love in pain. Sometimes you just…" Dick trailed off, his voice distant. Then started again with more conviction. "Sometimes people would rather just hold everything inside, so they can spare everyone around them. When you love someone, it makes you want to be less vulnerable so you don't hurt the ones around you."

Dick forced Damian's chin up. Damian tried to look at him but anytime he held his gaze for a few seconds at a time, he could see the deep empathy in Dick's gaze, and it made Damian's chest tighten. Still, he swallowed and managed to contain himself, just long enough for Dick to get a few more words in.

"You know you can always cry in front of me, right?"

* * *

The first time Damian cried in front of Dick, Dick didn't scold him like he expected him to.

Instead, Dick pulled away the hands that blocked his face, trying to get them to look eye to eye.

When Damian saw Dick's face, he could feel himself start to cry harder.

It was as if when he looked at Dick's face, he saw a mirror of his own, and all the shame and misery became twofold.

Tears were a sign of weakness. That was what Damian had been taught his whole life.

So why did Dick look so sad?

Had Damian's crying caused that?

* * *

"It's okay, baby."

Dick's voice was a gentle whisper, but there was a firmness to his words, a genuinity so strong that Damian didn't even have to trust Dick's words. He just knew. He could it feel it in his core— _it's okay_.

Damian was just barely listening. He was too focused on the intense heat inside of him.

"Daddy's got you."

Kisses on his cheeks, the corners of his eyes, as if tears were meant to be kissed. As if letting one get away, letting one slip by, was a worse sin than crying to begin with. As if it was something to be treasured.

"I'm never going to leave you," Dick whispered, breath hot against his ear and neck, and he moved deep, deeper inside of Damian.

Damian held tight. His hands slipped underneath the soft fabric of Dick's shirt, blunt fingernails digging into warm flesh, knuckles weighed down by the layers and layers of covers on top of them. The tent was black, the blankets a cocoon. A small sanctuary in an otherwise vast and empty desert.

He was stretched to the brink, Dick filling every corner inside of him. His body ached—but it was a good sort of ache. His throat and chest and eyes were sore from crying. His body was strained from accepting Dick inside of him, thighs stretched wide to accommodate him.

Dick's arms were wrapped around him, his body covering him. Inside. Outside. Dick was everywhere all at once, consuming him.

Damian had calmed somewhat. The gross, damn near wailing, cries had left him as soon as Dick had pushed inside of him. Now, his body was exhausted, his crying reduced to tears rolling from his puffy eyes, his voice reduced to the occasional shuddering sigh or sniff. But there was something soothing in the exhaustion—there was relief in the way that all the pent-up sorrow had been expelled from his body. He could heal.

Damian knew he must have looked like a mess. Face flushed, eyes wet. It would have been humiliating. But Dick wouldn't be able to see him. The moon was tucked away, the night was dark, and their bodies were too closely intertwined.

Everything was fine. All Damian had to do was just focus on the comfort of Dick's embrace. Dick didn't move, except in forms of caressing or kissing. Body parts moved through the darkness. Large, callused hands down his body, stroking and rubbing and massaging, down Damian's sides, his hips, his thighs.

It felt good to be wanted.

 _It's not your fault_.

Dick stayed deep inside of Damian and did not thrust, did not push, simply held. Damian focused on the warmth inside of him, feeling his shaky nerves and racing heart begin to calm down. Dick's cock occasionally pulsed or twitched inside of him, and Damian's head would go fuzzy each time. His own cock was stiff, pressed between their bodies.

Dick could move. If he wanted to. Damian wouldn't stop him.

But this was perfect enough. To simply be held, to have their bodies joined as one.

It was nice to just _stop_ for a moment.

Everything had been fast. The news of his father. The panicked scramble to chase their trail. It made Damian so anxious that he couldn't even sleep—until all the fear, the terror, consumed him.

No.

Don't think about that now.

 _Daddy's got you_.

In the pitch darkness, Damian's mind drifted, sorting through memories. He thought of the morning sun in Wayne manor, the light haloing behind Dick's form, long arms outstretched.

 _Come here, baby_.

And Damian would go to him, each time. The rising sun would warm Dick's skin. And Damian would just forget. Forget about what was weak, what was strong, because none of that compared to the indulgence of being in Dick's arms. Who could ever resist?

Snapping him out of his thoughts was a soft breath. Damian's eyes snapped open. He couldn't see, not in this absolute darkness, but that didn't mean he couldn't sense. He felt the subtle uneven rise and fall of Dick's body on top of his own. Felt the hitch of his breath as it fanned against the hollow of his neck.

Damian swallowed. This had to have been difficult for Dick. Damian would have been happy to stay like this—but he suddenly decided he want Dick to feel good too. More than that, he wanted to feel more.

Damian wished there was a way to see Dick's face without Dick having to see his—Damian liked seeing him, as flustering as it was. Liked seeing his handsome, mature face lost in pleasure—because of him. It made him feel powerful, in a way.

He positioned himself under Dick's body, his legs wrapping tighter around Dick's frame. Hooking him in, not letting him go. His blunt nails dug deep into Dick's back.

Dick groaned softly. Damian could feel Dick's cock responding inside of him—swelling. Pulsing.

Damian wanted to tell him that it was okay. That he was okay. But it was too embarrassing. The thought of it made his face hot, his voice silent. Instead he moved his hips, trying to get Dick to go on. _Go on_.

Then he heard it again.

That breath. Starting—then stopping halfway.

At that, Damian stilled, tucking away his own grief.

It couldn't have been.

But, then again…

Grayson had always been a fool.

 _I'm never going to leave you_.

Damian's gaze lowered.

He remembered, maybe realized, why they were both in that desert.

For each other. For him.

One or the other. Both.

And it was strange, to go from the role of the supported to the supporter. Stranger still, when Damian tried to filter through his memories to see if this had ever happened before. But Dick, even when his empathy was at his greatest, was just a paused look and deep blue eyes filled with intense sorrow. Nothing like this.

They never cried together.

 _Sometimes you just_...

Hesitantly at first, heart beating as if he was anticipating that he might do something wrong, Damian softened his grip. Hands moving up and down hardened muscles and scars.

"I'm sorry," Dick said. Damian could feel, hear, the kisses on his face and head. Almost apologetic. "I don't want you to hurt."

Damian struggled with that one for a moment.

"It doesn't," he insisted. "Not anymore."

* * *

Eyes squeezed shut, face pressed hard against Dick's chest.

Damian could feel the tremors running down his body. His face hot, his gasps shortening.

He felt the tension, pulling and pulling and pulling inside of him—

A sharp intake of breath, the tension snapped.

And he finally, finally, broke.


End file.
